Mila holds out her other hand. It’s trembling. A visible shudder runs through her body. “Why do I feel so sick?”
Seven
When Mila shows up in Jamie’s room Monday evening, I can tell immediately that she’s not feeling well. Her normally pale skin is even more wan, and her face is drawn and pinched.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I’ve dispensed with ordinary greetings, as I’ve figured out that those are wasted on Mila anyway.
“Nothing,” she says.
“Liar.”
“I don’t feel well.” Her tone is abrupt.
“I can see that. What feels bad?”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s get to work.” She sits down and opens her laptop.
I feel rebuffed, but I tell myself to let it go. She seems so bad-tempered right now, I decide that caution is the better part of valor, or whatever that saying is. Anyway, if I have the right to battle agonizing migraines and dizziness without getting myself looked at, I suppose she has a right to feel bad in peace, too.
I ought to get myself looked at.
| Call from Family. |
I think quickly. I haven’t talked to anybody in a day or two. I probably can’t get away with letting it go to voicemail. I pick up.
“Hello?” I ask subvocally.
“Daughter,” my dad acknowledges, his voice somber, as always. “What news about Jamie?”
“Nothing, Dad. If there was news, I would have called you and told you.”
“Has his condition not improved? You said he would be leaving the hospital by now.”
“Well, I think it might be another couple of days now.”
“You said that before, Daughter. To fail to speak the utmost truth to one’s parents is to displease God.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not lying,” I lie. “A couple more days, Dad. I’m pretty sure. As soon as there’s something new, I’ll tell you—I promise.” I sigh again. “Let me talk to Mom.”
I hear the receiver being handed over. My mother’s voice trembles. “Phoebe, is Jamie going to be okay?”
“Yes, Mom,” I lie. Well, I hope I’m not lying. “Could you please tell Dad that he doesn’t need to call me? It’s a distraction when I’m trying to take care of Jamie. I’ll call him when things change.”
“I’ll try, Phoebe. You know it’s all I can do.”
“I know, Mom.” I tell her silently that I love her. I never tell her out loud. She won’t reciprocate. “Goodbye.”
I hear the click of the receiver, and I rub my aching head. I’m aggravated and hurt at the same time. This is why I don’t talk to my parents.
I catch Mila looking at me. “What?” I ask.
“You have headaches a lot.”
“Yeah?” I shrug defensively.
“How long has that been going on?”
“Not long. A week or so.” As if she has any right to bug me about it.
She studies me. “What other symptoms do you have?”
“Just the headaches. And dizziness. It’s no big deal,” I lie again.
She doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she goes back to her laptop.
I shrug it off and check the news about HAD. I know I have the TellMeWhen trigger set up, but I can’t just sit around and wait for it to tell me if something new happens. It makes me feel twitchy to think I might be missing something.
I find a news video with a male newscaster who I decide is overdoing the “serious newscaster” tone.
“We’re on day eight of the mysterious neurological illness the Centers for Disease Control have dubbed Hyper-Aggression Disorder, with hallmarks of fear, aggression, and repetitive behaviors, and along with Day Eight comes an estimate of eight thousand victims in total, with nearly three thousand of those occurring in the last twenty-four hours.
“Law enforcement officials, in conjunction with the National Guard, have worked overnight without sleep to create temporary detention centers nationwide, most of them in school gymnasiums, community centers, and temporary buildings, for the influx of patients that have overburdened hospitals and overwhelmed jails.
“No information has been supplied to the news media about conditions within these detention facilities or the treatment of the victims, nor is it clear whether they are considered medical patients or offenders under arrest. Numerous lawsuits have already been filed for illegal confinement. City officials have had no official response, other than from Mayor Frederick Brown of Cincinnati. He issued a statement saying that ‘the safety of the public and the continued functioning of American society is our top priority at this time.’
“The Centers for Disease Control continue to rule out possible causes, but without finding any plausible explanation for the epidemic. For now, all the world can do is watch and wait.”
I close the video and go back to my work.
I think I’ve had enough of HAD.
Two hours later, Mila says, “We’re almost there. I can almost touch it. I’ve traced most of the functioning of the code, and I’m very close to understanding how it all works together.”
I let out a long, slow breath. I hadn’t even realized how stressed I’ve been until I feel the weight on my shoulders lighten a little. “Progress is fantastic news, Mila.”
I contemplate the fact that she’s paying my bills and living expenses while she spends her evenings here trying to figure out what’s wrong with my brother and all the other thousands of affected patients. She could be the one person who solves this whole thing. She looks like a hero to me. I swear there’s a halo. My heart seems to swell.
“You know, Mila…”
She looks up from her laptop, her gaze neutral.
“I wanted to say thank you. The CDC still has no other leads as to what could be causing this disorder. We would all be at a complete loss without you. Thank you so much for doing this.”
Her gaze sharpens, and for some reason that I do not fathom, she snaps at me, “Yeah, whatever. You can keep your gratitude. I don’t care about any of this. It’s not my goddamned problem, and I don’t even know why I’m here.” Her gaze returns to her laptop screen, and she hammers something on the keyboard.
I feel like I’ve been slapped. I look at what’s currently showing on my Navi, as if I’ll just return to my work, but I feel my breath coming faster and faster and my heart stepping up its rhythm, and I become certain that I’m about to say hurtful and damaging things that will probably cause Mila to stop helping me.
The only way to prevent it is to leave. Now. I stand up so rapidly, I knock over my chair, then I dash out of the room. I want to slam the door, but I don’t. Then I stomp down the hallway, tears burning their way out of their ducts.
“Son of a bitch.”
| You have donated $10 to the North American Man/Boy Love Association. |
I put my hands over my face and scream in my mind.
< That is not helping! Navi, calm me down. Please. I am so angry right now. >
| Would you like a calming meditation? |
< No. Yes. No. That’s not going to help. >
I message my entire Collective.
< This Nonnie pisses me off sooooo bad. >
| Would you like a cheerful video? |
< No. Nevermind. Leave me alone. >
I pace rapidly up and down the hall.
<< Dominick: What did she do this time? >>
<< Shannon: Are you still hanging out with her? >>
I hear a sound behind me, and I turn to see Mila stepping out of Jamie’s room.
Her shoulders are drawn and her face tense, and she looks frail and vulnerable. “I’m sorry that I hurt you,” she says. Her tone is curt, but it’s the only emotional statement I’ve ever heard from her.
I don’t even know what to say.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I tell her. “That was so mean. Why would you say something like that? What is with you?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be mad. Please don’t be mad.” S
he still isn’t looking at me.
I stop my pacing.
< She’s helping me with a personal project that’s important to me. And she said that she doesn’t even know why she’s bothering. >
<< Laura: Okay, what? Then why is she? >>
<< Megan: Yeah, that’s rude. >>
The instant support from my Collective helps calm me down, but a part of me still wants to lash out at Mila. “That was an awful thing to say. Why did you say it?”
Her mouth opens and tries to form words, but she fails. Finally, she says, “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
<< Erik: She’s a Nonnie. What do you expect? Weird people are weird. >>
It’s Mila’s third repetition of the apology that gets through to me. I take deep breaths for a moment while we stand there in the hallway. My head is throbbing again. Medical staff and family members of patients eye us as they pass by, making me feel awkward.
<< Shannon: Well, as long as she’s still helping, right? >>
< Well, now she’s apologizing. >
“All I wanted was to say ‘thank you,’” I grumble. “I mean, this is my brother’s life we’re talking about.” I realize Mila was right a moment ago—I’m not angry. I’m hurt.
She pauses. “You’re welcome?”
It’s so pathetic, so halting, that I start laughing. It’s either that or start bawling.
She looks at me for a moment, and then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her smile, and for a moment, she’s breathtaking.
I shake my head. “Yes, that’s what you’re supposed to say. ‘You’re welcome.’ Next time, try that, okay?”
“Okay.”
<< Shannon: She’d better apologize. >>
<< Dominick: Better be a good apology, too. >>
I study her for a moment longer. I’m still hurt about what she said. She meant it. That’s the thing.
“You know, you don’t have to help,” I say. “I mean, I’m screwed without you, honestly. But maybe you know someone else who could do it instead of you if you resent it so much.”
She looks away, the furrowed eyebrows making their return. Then she takes a step closer to me. “I want to help. I’m not feeling well, and it made me angry. But I want to help you.” The words are halting, uncertain. Along with them, she places one delicate, warm hand on my arm, and those icy blue eyes regard me apprehensively.
The final traces of my resistance melt. “It’s okay,” I mutter helplessly.
We go back into the room. I pick up my chair and set it right.
< She apologized, and she said she wasn’t feeling well. Not a great excuse, but whatever. >
Jamie surprises me by messaging me.
<< Why are you fighting? >>
< No good reason, Jamie. Don’t worry. We’re done fighting now. >
<< Okay. It was exciting for a second there. >>
He goes back to his video game or movie or whatever he’s doing, and Mila and I sit back down and resume our work in quiet companionship.
Some time later, Mila asks in a subdued tone, “Is your mother important to you?”
I look at up beseechingly, as if God were going to help me out here. I wish I ever understood where she was coming from with these random questions and comments. “Yes, of course she is.”
When no reply is forthcoming, I elaborate. “My father is kind of harsh, kind of severe. Not likeable. My mother is serious, too. Neither of them are happy people, I guess. But my mother is generous with her spirit. I know she would do anything for me—or any of her kids. But even more than that, I think she would do anything for anyone. She’s a compassionate person. Even if it weren’t taught by our community that we’re supposed to help each other, which we are.”
“Do you love her?” Mila asks, her tone absent-minded.
I sigh. “Of course I do.” I remember how I can’t say it to her out loud, and my heart hurts again. I pull up a photo of her and email it to Mila. It’s a candid photo taken by my Navi without her knowledge, since my community eschews photography. Too close to “graven images,” forbidden by God in the Bible. Too likely to encourage egotism. In my own experience since leaving home, I’ve found photographs more likely to inspire self-hatred. But maybe that’s just me.
I wait for a while, but Mila doesn’t say anything. I see her bring up the photo of my mother on her screen, but she doesn’t comment.
“Why do you ask?” I prompt.
“No reason.” She types for a moment and then says, “My mother is senile.”
“Really? How old is she?” I’ve always thought Mila was about my age. Her mother ought to be too young to be senile.
“She’s fifty-six. But she had early onset Alzheimer’s. She was forty-six when it started.”
Ten years ago… that was about three years before the Alzheimer’s smart drugs were perfected. Mila’s mom just missed the window where she could have had her mind given back to her good as new. “Damn it, Mila. I’m sorry. That’s tough.”
If Mila’s as old as I am, then her mother started losing her mind when Mila was a teenager. Suddenly, some of Mila’s strangeness makes more sense to me.
“Were you her primary caregiver at first?”
Mila doesn’t answer.
I wait several minutes, and then I give up and go back to work. Apparently, the conversation is over.
It’s almost two o’clock in the morning when Mila jerks bolt upright in her bed, gasping and whimpering. She flails for a moment, then manages to catch the lamp in her hand and fumbles for the light switch. Yellow light pushes back the darkness, and she looks around with wide eyes, her body rigidly upright.
Her cat mews from beside her. Mila looks at the cat for a moment, but her body doesn’t relax. She scrambles out of bed and goes into the kitchen and gets a drink of water. She goes around and turns on all the lights in the apartment. Then she stands in the center of the living room in her silk pajamas, staring into the distance and rubbing the spot under her jaw.
Then she goes into the bathroom and looks at that spot. A pale bruise, roughly the circumference of a quarter, is apparent under the bright light.
Mila’s eyes widen. She backs away from the mirror, her breath coming fast. “No,” she says. “No, no, no.”
She goes back into the bedroom, where her cat has gone back to sleep on Mila’s pillow. Mila stares at nothing, her face stricken.
Then she dives for her purse, on the bedside table, and scrambles for her notepad. She looks up a number, grabs the phone by the bed, and dials with trembling fingers.
The phone rings, rings again, and rings a third time.
A sleepy voice comes over the line. “Mila? Is that you?” It’s Phoebe.
“Yes. I need you to do something for me. Please.”
“Okay… what is it?”
“I need an M-MRI scan. I need to know if anything has been put into my brain.”
There’s a pause. “Okay. Is this an emergency?”
“Yes, it is.” Mila’s voice is distressed.
“Okay… um. Okay, but things are kind of crazy in emergency rooms and M-MRI labs right now because of HAD.” Phoebe’s voice strengthens and gains clarity as she wakes up. “I don’t know if you would be able to get a scan anytime soon. Can I come take a look at you? I might be able to figure some things out.”
Mila hesitates only a moment. “Okay. I’ll just come to you. Actually, let’s meet somewhere in the middle. It will be faster.”
The two women make arrangements to meet in a parking lot of a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, they both arrive.
Phoebe approaches as if she might hug the other woman, but she stops at the last moment. “So, what’s happening?” she asks. She looks alert and concerned.
“I have a sore bruise at the implant site for Navis. I’m worried that they’ve installed a Navi without my knowledge.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t kno
w. People. Someone. Anyone.”
Phoebe nods, despite looking at Mila askance. “Let me scan you with my Navi.” A moment later, she reports, “There are no detectable devices within range. You don’t have a Personal Area Network. So if you do have a Navi, it’s not turned on. What other symptoms do you have?”
“I’ve had memory issues, where I can’t remember parts of conversations, and episodes of weakness, shaking, nausea, and headache that lasted a day. This has happened twice. And pain at the corner of my eye and here at the site of the bruise.”
Phoebe looks again. “My Navi doesn’t detect anything wrong with your pupils, breathing, temperature, or heart rate. If you had a Navi and your body was going to reject it, you would know quickly, right?”
Mila nods slowly. “I guess so. I got a Navi when I was seventeen. I had an acute rejection reaction. Dizziness, headaches, and nausea at first… Three hours later, I blacked out and started having convulsions. My mom said I convulsed for an hour before they got the Navi out. I don’t remember it… I remember the recovery afterward. I’ve never felt that bad before or since.”
Phoebe nods sympathetically. “I don’t see any signs of a Navi or of a rejection reaction. And like I said, it’s going to be a nightmare at an emergency room. If you’re not obviously in immediate danger, you would probably wait for days. Let me and my Navi keep an eye on you. We know what to watch out for this time. If you start to have a reaction, I can get you to an emergency room and make sure you get the appropriate treatment.”
Absence of Mind Page 13
